


Someone I can teach

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ramsay is a disappointment, but it cannot be helped for his bad blood.</p>
<p>Theon is a disappointment, but not because of his blood. He just needs the firm hand and guidance of a truly lordly father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone I can teach

When he is removed from Lord Ramsay’s custody and entrusted into that of his father, the contrast is startling. Here there is no lash, no blade, no harsh words or heavy blows. Lord Bolton, although he is the author of his own bastard’s cruelty, has a neatness about him that does not permit such open-handed atrocities. The thought of his face twisting in a spittle-flecked grin, hand eagerly brandishing a flaying knife as he alternately caresses and wounds Theon, is monstrous, no, ridiculous. Here there are only words, softly spoken, instructions, histories, and the worst form of chastisement is cold disapproval. 

Theon learns to quail from that though, just as he had from his old master’s wrath, for it, in its own way, is just as wounding, just as dangerous. In Lord Bolton he has found something that he has not felt in a long time, if ever he felt it. Respect. Here he is catered to, fed sumptuous meals while his companion watches with a softly amused expression, picking at a meager repast while Theon, too long starved, gorges himself on rich dishes and wine. Here he is bathed by servants who take care to hide their distaste at his open wounds, just now beginning to heal after their treatment by a silent Maester, and the initial stench that hovered about him, filth coating his thin, shivering body. Here his fine clothes, the velvets and silks that he wore when his destiny was prince, or maybe even king, are returned to him, covering the ruin that he has become at Ramsay’s hands. And when he is attired thus, has eaten enough that some of the lost flesh has clung again to him, has lived securely enough that he does not flinch at the slightest noise, he is brought before Roose Bolton, who smiles at the sight, nodding in approval. 

“It will do,” Bolton says in his queer whispery voice, his equally strange eyes passing over Theon, lingering on his face. “You will serve me well, Theon Greyjoy.” 

He is not sure why, but the thought makes him tremble. He hates himself for it. 

*

And so it begins. Lord Bolton takes him under his wing, forcing him to attend the meetings that he holds nightly with his bannermen now that he is Lord Paramount, treating him, in his subtle way, much as a pet as Lord Ramsay has. Theon watches carefully as he manipulates hardened men with insinuated threats barely whispered, as he flatters others, their weakness showing in different ways. Each man is a puzzle to Theon, but Lord Bolton knows all of their weaknesses as that of a well-thumbed book, missing nothing. And he listens as Bolton and his man Walton plan battles, some with words, others with swords. When he is asked his opinion, he is terse, afraid to err, afraid to offend, and most of the time his words are gently mocked. 

Bolton makes another use of him as well, much the same as Lord Ramsay did, taking him into his bed. Here he is a plaything, but not an ill-used one, a gentle yet steely hand forcing him to his knees in the midst of the rushes, his hands, made all the clumsier by missing fingers, fumbling at Bolton’s breeches, taking him deep into his mouth, using whatever meager caresses he can muster to please this cold man. Roose Bolton rarely reacts, yet it becomes somewhat of an expectation, as does the occasional venture into Bolton’s bed, just as silent, just as removed, as he is fucked like a woman, harsh hands gripping his body like iron, leaving impressions in the shape of themselves, his only real scars gifted by his new master. Theon does not begrudge Bolton this in a way; he has seen how near to delivery his young wife is, and has come to accept his place at his side as a lesser man. For it is the only sort of place that he has known. 

And like those other places, a dark admiration begins to grow in his heart for Roose Bolton’s methods, for the weight of history that clings to him, blood-stained and arcane, like the fabled skin of an enemy, and how willingly and easily he accepts it. Bolton knows exactly what he is. Theon envies that, wishes that he could say the same for himself, and slowly but surely, begins to emulate it, sneaking into the dungeons below the silent halls of the Dreadfort, although it pains him to do so, paging clandestinely through ancient histories that gather dust on forgotten shelves, watching Bolton’s silent rule, watching and waiting and learning. 

*

When things begin to go wrong, when Ramsay rages against the storm battering the walls of Winterfell, when the Freys quarrel, their bond broken, while Manderly plots and plans his game, Roose Bolton turns to Theon one evening, far past midnight. 

“What is to be done with my son?” 

Theon bites his lip, hard, drawing blood. He is afraid to suggest anything at first, for he has never really been permitted to suggest anything, and he is fearful, very fearful, that his words will come out wrong. But Bolton’s stare is menacing and the silence oppressive, and when the words come out, they are choked. 

“Send him out first,” Theon says, unable to meet Bolton’s eyes, feeling, with a heavy sense of self-disgust, an almost shameful disloyalty, as though he is betraying his old master. And of course, he is. He is not sure if this is what Bolton wants to hear, but once he begins, it is hard to staunch the words. “Send him and his men out first. Let your losses come from them.”

Bolton does not say anything at first; he merely regards Theon, his expression inscrutable. Theon takes it as an invitation to continue. “Let him break. Let him fall. Let him burn,” he says at last, thinking on what their spies have told them of Stannis’ methods, of his Red Woman and her sacrifices to an alien red god. He cannot bring himself to say _Lord Ramsay_ , his tongue drying at the thought, but he feels a surge of satisfaction in voicing the sentiments, in giving shape to a vengeance that he had not known was in him. 

“And what if he suspects?” Bolton says, his hand reaching out, fingers like ice, to brush Theon’s own. He wishes to draw back, disgusted by the clammy touch and ashamed of his mutilation, but he is unable to. And so, he continues. 

“He is arrogant, overly sure of himself and his prowess with a sword. And he is far too eager, you have said so many times yourself, to him, to me.” He trails off, thinking that he’s said too much, face flushing, stomach in a knot. 

“And so my son will likely die,” Bolton says without a trace of emotion, “and in the meantime, what am I to do? Houses with no heirs are ripe for the plucking, and a name will only carry authority so far.” 

“Lady Walda,” Theon says, almost gasping as the pressure on his hand intensifies, “she will soon deliver.”

Bolton scoffs. “A babe in arms is no proper heir. What am I to do in the meantime?”

Theon pauses, knowing what he wants to say, suspecting that Bolton wants him to say it, but he is reluctant to voice it. It is far too great for an unwanted son of Pyke, discarded as a political tool, banished, taken, brought low here in this distant north. It is far too high for a servant, no better than a dog, so recently clothed in rags, coated in filth, eating rats, scraps, to survive. But it comes out anyway, and he feels a cold thrill in his heart as he voices what he realizes is his desire. 

“Then name another, until he comes of age. Take a ward, someone you know, someone who you can teach, who will be able to rule. Someone who will suit.”

Bolton smiles, and it is frightening to Theon. It does not touch his eyes and is more like the rictus of a corpse than anything else. “Someone who will suit,” he repeats, his hand moving to Theon’s cheek, tracing the outline of the bone beneath the skin. “Someone who I can teach.”

“Someone who can be your son,” Theon whispers as he is led to the bed, stripped slowly of his clothing, black and gold, soon to be replaced by shades of pink, shades of newly-exposed flesh. He smiles this time as he is taken, for he has found his place at last.


End file.
